Zero Saints

by Gabino Iglesias

  The silence around us was not uncomfortable. We more or less knew what we were doing, and discussing anything else struck me as stupid. Judging by El Príncipe’s face, he thought the same thing.

  We stayed on Airport for a while and eventually turned left on Webberville. We quickly approached the first light there. Taking a left would lead us to T.B.’s Lounge.

  “You said they’re at the house behind T.B.’s?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

  “Cool. Keep your head down. I’ll drive by it with my phone in my hand like I’m looking for an address or something. If they’re around, we don’t want these motherfuckers to see you before we get a chance to surprise them.”

  Not seeing anything the first time we drove by was not what I had in mind, but El Príncipe’s logic was solid. I moved the seat back a bit and then bent forward as much as I could. I looked at the two new dogs on my wrist and prayed for strength.

  El Príncipe dug his phone out of his pocket and started messing with it and looking at both sides of the street.

  “We’re almost at T.B.’s now.”

  The car slowed down a bit more. I closed my eyes and prayed in silence.

  “There’s only one small house behind the place. There’s no one outside, but there are lights on inside.”

  El Príncipe kept driving slowly and glancing at his phone. The man was a professional. It almost made me feel bad for criticizing his style. Still, this was only the beginning. I’d heard way too many stories about him kicking doors down and shooting people out in the open in the middle of the day to start thinking he was going to act like a ninja instead of a drunk cowboy the second that cañón he was carrying around came out.

  “You can sit up now,” he said. “I’m gonna get to the end of the street and turn around. Keep your eyes on the house. See if you can spot anyone inside. Maybe they’re not there and just left the lights on.”

  We turned around. I placed my elbow on the windowsill and covered the lower half of my face with it just in case.

  The house was a small brown structure that would look abandoned if you broke one of its windows. The front lawn was a sad mix of dry dirt and yellow grass. The garage door was crooked and missing large chunks of white paint. There were two windows facing the street, both to the left of the garage door. A dark brown door sat between them.

  There were no people moving inside the house, but that didn’t mean the place was empty.

  “Let’s park a block or so from T.B.’s and walk back here. We can cut across T.B.’s backyard. There’s no fence.”

  El Príncipe did what I told him.

  He turned the lights off and then killed the engine. I looked forward. The few cars in front of T.B.s Lounge meant there wasn’t much going on in there. I liked it that way. Less curious assholes once shots started ringing. I hoped that the music inside would be too loud for them to hear and that, if they did, they did the east Austin thing and looked the other way.

  “You ready to do this?”

  His question came at me like a runaway train and thinking about my answer destroyed that invisible thing that had been holding me together.

  The answer was a very loud no, a no yelled at the top of my lungs while running in the opposite direction.

  El Príncipe dug into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of blow. He held it in his left hand and unscrewed the top. He dumped some of the white powder on his clenched right fist and snorted it. He passed the vial to me. It’d been a very long time since I’d filled my sinuses with the white fire that comes from la caspa del Diablo.

  “Date un pase, cabrón,” he said. “Este perico te va a sacar pelo en el pecho y va a hacer que te crezcan los cojones.”

  The motherfucker smiled at me.

  He was wrong. The blow wouldn’t make me braver. It wouldn’t give me more cojones. However, I knew it would kick whatever Oxy-induced slowness there could be hanging around in my system, so I shook a small mountain onto my fist and snorted it into my right nostril.

  Two seconds went by and nothing happened. Then my head exploded.

  Snorting shit that’s been cut into by greedy hands is one thing, but slapping your brain with pure snow is like dumping your head in cold water and then using jumper cables attached to a car battery as earrings.

  “Tengo miedo, güey.”

  It just came out. El Príncipe looked at me.

  “We already talked about this, tipo. We’re gonna go see if these motherfuckers are there and take care of business. Vinimos a jalar gatillo y eso es lo que vamos a hacer. You’ll be home soon and you’ll sleep better knowing no one will be coming for you.”

  “We’re gonna try to use normal bullets to try to kill a man who’s really a demonio, carnal. It can’t be done.”

  “Los demonios no existen, papi, sólo están en tu cabeza.”

  “No, this man is a demonio, he…”

  El Príncipe turned to me and slapped my chest with the back of his hand.

  “Pull out your gun.”

  “What? I…”

  “Pull out your fucking gun, sácala!” he screamed.

  I pulled out my gun. He took it from me and hit me in the head with it. It hurt. A lot.

  “You feel that, papi? That’s a fucking gun con balas huecas adentro. That’s real. Your pain is real. This ain’t the time for your religious bullshit. No demons, no saints, no gods, no nothing. We go in there and we kill us some motherfuckers for popping Guillermo and Consuelo. You feel me? This, this shit’s real. Get that other nonsense out of your head.”

  He threw the gun in my lap and got out of the car. I picked up the piece and did the same.

  Suddenly we found ourselves standing on the sidewalk, silent and looking at each other.

  “Vamos a darle a esto, cabrón.”

  El Príncipe started walking toward T.B.’s. I followed him. Between his confidence and the blow in my head, I was feeling slightly more confident.

  “Vamos a cortar por aquí.”

  The back of T.B.s was an open space surrounded by trees and dry bamboo. We walked next to the building. Someone was playing blues inside. There was no one smoking out back. We sprinted through the open area and went into the trees.

  We approached the back of the small brown house sideways to use the cover provided by the trees and bamboo.

  There was a window on the left side. Small. Lights were on behind white blinds.

  “Let’s walk up to that window, see if we can spot someone or hear anything.”

  A car drove by. A big brown thing that looked as old as the house. It slowed down. I pulled out my gun. The car kept going down the street. I inhaled.

  The window was only about ten feet from us when we heard a laugh coming from somewhere behind it. It was all we needed to hear.

  El Príncipe crouched a bit. I did the same. He looked at me.

  “These motherfuckers don’t know me. We’ll go around and I’ll knock on the door. You hide next to me. Stay low. I’ll pop whoever answers in the face and start shooting at anyone else inside. You’ll come in behind me. Try to get next to me if it’s clear. Don’t shoot from behind me. If you fucking shoot, te juro que te mato.”

  The plan was crap. It was a suicide mission. It was exactly why I’d told Guillermo not to put El Príncipe on it from the start. Knocking on a door and shooting everyone inside once the door opened didn’t even deserve to be called a plan. Not even if I had been smart enough to score a vest. However, I had nothing better, so I went with it and nodded because I was too scared to talk.

  We walked slowly, our bodies almost brushing against the side of the house. We were both listening for any kind of sounds coming from the other side of the wall. When we reached the corner of the house, El Príncipe looked at me and nodded. No words. No encouragement. Absolutamente nada.

  He walked past the first window without crouching. At some point, he had taken out his massive gun and was now holding it behind his back. We reached the edge of the house and he
turned, looked at me with a smile on his face, and nodded. He moved casually forward. I followed at an uncomfortable crouch, staying about five or six feet from him. He reached the door and used his left hand to knock. His knocks sounded like explosions to me.

  My breathing was fast and shallow. I was getting dizzy. El miedo me estaba volviendo pendejo. I heard voices inside, one of them approaching the door. There was a click.

  The door opened.

  El Príncipe raised his gun and fired.

  It sounded like the end of the world.

  I blinked and he was gone. I stood up and ran to the door.

  The guy on the floor only had half a face. The half he still had was covered in tattoos. The puddle of blood was growing fast.

  El Príncipe was aiming at a hallway. He squeezed off a second shot. His right arm flew up like the gun wanted to take flight. He held it with both hands. Another explosion rocked the house.

  Screams were coming from the rooms in the back of the house.

  A figure popped up from behind a ratty brown sofa to the right of the hallway’s entrance. Brown dude. Shirtless. Covered in ink. Our guns moved to him simultaneously. My shot got off first, turned into an explosion of dust and plaster. The guy ducked, threw his hands up to cover his head. The second shot came. El Príncipe had actually aimed. The guy’s shoulder erupted. Red splattered the wall. The guy looked like a football player had pushed him against the wall. The arm covering his head went down. He kept moving. I squeezed my trigger again. The top of his head vaporized into a cloud of red mist.

  Two down. Judging from the voices inside the house, there were more than two to go.

  Then someone was shooting at us from the hallway. I dropped to the floor. El Príncipe grabbed his cañón with two hands and squeezed the trigger twice. I could feel each shot deep in my chest the way you feel the bass when the music is too loud at a club.

  I half-ran, half-crawled my way to the wall where the dead guy was. My plan was to shoot those pinches culeros from a low angle. Maybe that way would they wouldn’t see me coming. I looked at El Príncipe. Bullets were flying out of the darkened hallway like bees from just-kicked nest, but the guy stood there, aiming his gun like he couldn’t be touched by bullets. Boom. His cannon exploded again and his arms kicked up. Then a bullet caught him in the chest and he stumbled back. He fired again with one hand. The gun bucked like a pissed off mule. A second later his head snapped back. He dropped back. Didn’t move.

  I realized I’d have to use my left hand if I wanted to sneak my gun into the hallway and get a few shots off without getting shot in the face.

  I’d never shot a gun lefthanded. It felt weird. I pulled the trigger four times. No screams, but the shooting stopped for a few seconds.

  A man came running out with something long and black in his arms. He made the mistake of looking right first the second he left the hallway. I lifted my gun and pulled the trigger. He bent over and screamed. He looked at me. From his bent position, he moved the rifle in my direction. I squeezed off two more shots. I don’t know where one of them went, but the second turned the left side of his neck into a red mush. La sangre salió disparada como en las películas de Tarantino.

  My ears were ringing from the shots and the smell of cordite was raping my nose.

  No shots came from the rooms. I sat there and waited, feeling like my heart was trying to kick his way out of my chest.

  Then I heard feet.

  They were moving away from me. Then there was another sound I didn’t recognize. It took every ounce of will I possessed to flatten myself against the floor and take a peek at the hallway.

  It was empty.

  I’d have to get my ass up and go finish this thing.

  I prayed.

  Santa Muerte, por favor deja que sólo sean cuatro.

  If there was more than one marero in those rooms, I was muerto.

  Consuelo. I needed her voice. It didn’t come.

  I looked down at my arm. The two dogs were still there. She was there.

  I stood up and pressed myself against the wall. The ringing was slowly subsiding, but not fast enough. If someone was whispering or moving around in those rooms, I wouldn’t be able to hear them.

  My eyes went to El Príncipe’s body. I thought about grabbing his vest, but moving his body around was a sure way to get killed.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  I said it out loud. Then I moved into the hallway, my gun leading the way with its dark belly still pregnant with some blessed balas.

  The first door was on the left. It was open. Darkness ruled beyond the doorway. The second door and third doors were on the right. The last door had to be the room we’d seen from the back of the house. The light was still on. The door before it had to be the bathroom. It was dark, but enough light from the last room was spilling out for me to make out a white counter.

  Indio had to be in that last room.

  Consuelo’s slashed neck came to me. Her body slumped against the kitchen cabinets like some discarded piece of garbage. I needed the anger to come back and kick the fear out like a tenant who won’t pay rent.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  Short and simple. Un mantra personal e immediato.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  A breeze came in and caressed my sweaty arms. I thought it was un mensaje divino. I closed my eyes, whispered a thank you. Then the breeze came again.

  The window.

  Indio was escaping.

  I heard laughter coming from behind me. I turned, gun raised. There was no one there. Then the laughter came again, but from behind me.

  I ran into the room. There was a mattress on the floor and a few bottles next to it. It smelled like weed smoke and sweat. The window was open. The blinds were moving gently in the breeze. El pinche hijueputa se había fugado. I had to go after him.

  I moved to the window, moved the blinds out of the way, and placed my hands on the windowsill so I could lift a leg and jump out.

  My right leg touched the grass and something came at me fast. I saw white balls of light all around me.

  Indio.

  He’d been waiting for me.

  The butt of his gun came down on my head again. The balls of light clicked off. My legs bent. My right hand let go of the gun. Indio grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me the rest of the way out, let go. My body hit the ground. Air left my lungs. Indio growled and kicked me. Something in my chest cracked. It felt like someone had put a blade in me.

  “Lo nuestro es matar a bala, marica.”

  His voice would’ve made wolves run away.

  “Tu no eres nadie, cabrón. Nadie jode con la Salvatrucha. Nadie jode conmigo.”

  He kicked me again. The knife in my ribs went in deeper. My eyes were open, but all I saw for two seconds was absolute darkness.

  Indio’s hand was on me again. He pulled me by up by my shirt and screamed something in a strange language. The sound was something physical. It hit me like a gust of hot air. My feet left the ground for a few seconds. His strength wasn’t human.

  He was angry. Spit was flying out of his mouth. His words ran into each other and became growls. Then he stopped, shoved me down, and stood straight. He threw his head back and started speaking in that bizarre tongue again, but now it sounded like three or four people talking at once.

  I looked up. His mouth wasn’t moving, but I could still hear him. What looked like tiny hands were pushing against the skin in his stomach from the inside. The skin stretched like a ballon and then retreated. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t.

  The black eye of Indio’s gun was down looking at me.

  I wanted to get up, take that gun from him, shove it up his ass, and pull the trigger. I couldn’t. Todo lo que podia hacer era sentir dolor. My favorite prayer came to me.

  Señora Blanca, Señora Negra, a tus pies me postro para pedirte, para suplicarte, que hagas sentir tu fuerza, tu poder y tu omnipotencia contra los que intenten destruirme.

&nbs
p; Before I could continue in my head, Indio spoke. His voice belonged to a monster, but it was loud and clear over the mumbled nonsense of those other voices that were coming from everywhere and nowhere.

  “Ogún oko dara obaniché…”

  His eyes were filled with blackness. The tiny hands were gone replaced by the outlines of faces. A few flies flew out of his mouth.

  “…aguanile ichegún...”

  A thin black tube appeared next to Indio’s head.

  Thup.

  His head snapped sideways. The arm holding the gun dropped down. He followed.

  A black 9mm was attached to the silencer. Holding both of them and looking down at me was the Russian. He looked at Indio’s body, lowered the gun a bit, and put two more bullets in his skull. His eyes were now normal. A few more flies came from his mouth. His stomach and chest no longer moved.

  “He bleeds,” said the Russian.

  I coughed. Grunted from the pain.

  “You and your friend are very stupid men, Nando.”

  I wasn’t about to argue with him. He was absolutely right.

  “You are lucky that I am curious. You are lucky that running away a second time made me feel bad. You should thank my mother. She talked me into coming here without saying a single word. Pray for her dusha.”

  I nodded.

  “I will get out of here now. Too much noise. Cops will be here soon. I suggest you disappear as well. Don’t take that car you came in. Do you need to come with me?”

  I nodded again. I wanted to thank him, but words wouldn’t come. The Russian reached out to me. I grabbed his hand. He yanked me up as if I weighed nothing. White hot pain flared in my chest. I leaned on him. We started walking.

  “The Tchort that was following you, he is dead now.”

  “He… he is. Thank you.”

  “This man with the black eyes, I did not kill him for you, Nando, I killed him for me.”

  That statement didn’t require an answer.

  We walked around T.B.’s Lounge. The Russian’s car was the same big beast I’d seen earlier. He opened the door and helped me get inside. Then he climbed in and we took off. The Russian didn’t ask me where I lived.

  “Your boss, he is dead. What will you do now?”